


Help Me Hold on to Me

by hushed_whispers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hushed_whispers/pseuds/hushed_whispers
Summary: This is a dark-ish fic (with a happy ending!). It takes place a few years after Dorian flees Tevinter. He decides to get a symbolic tattoo to cover a past scar, and Iron Bull owns the tattoo parlor. It deals with some pretty heavy themes and concepts, such as domestic abuse, conversion therapy, and PTSD. The story takes place after a dark period in Dorian's life, but flashbacks will be detailed and referenced throughout the fic, so please be aware of that. Even so, there is definite humor sprinkled throughout the fic, so it's not all doom and gloom.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	1. Taking Steps

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS  
> This fic will contain references, and in some cases, graphic depictions of abuse, depression, and non-con elements. Please tread cautiously.
> 
> Side Note: This is my first fic! I'm a little late to the party, but I'm happy to be here.

There are few things more unnerving than the unwavering stare of a bored cat. Magi’s sitting on the vanity, and her yellow eyes catch Dorian’s in the mirror as he draws a thick, dark line across his lid. He tries to ignore her, because he’s almost finished and because he’s the boss of this house, but she is quite a stubborn animal. He turns sideways, trying to avoid her gaze.

“Just wait a moment,” he tells her.

Magi strolls across the vanity then, using Dorian’s products as stepping stones and doesn’t stop until she’s close enough for her fur to graze his cheek. She sits down then and begins to bat impatiently at Dorian’s hand, hard enough to jostle it and cause him to smear his eyeliner. He curses under his breath and shoos her away, but she ignores him, opting instead to collapse into a disgruntled heap in front of him. They manage to tolerate each other until Dorian finishes up, but Magi is clearly unimpressed with him.

_If he looks up he’ll be able to see himself in the vanity, but he’s afraid to move. He doesn’t have to anyway; he knows he’s wrecked, can feel the wet slide of tears against his already-swelling eye, and he knows that his cheeks are streaked with liner. He hadn’t intended to cry. He swallows back the storm of emotions inside in him more often than not, but tonight a piece of him has finally cracked._

_Rilienus is behind him, Dorian can see his shadow, can feel his presence still lingering there, looming and heavy. Dorian waits. If he moves it’ll be worse, Dorian knows that; besides, where would he go?_

_“Still a little slut. After everything I’ve done for you.” Rilienus rests his hand on Dorian’s head, fingers brushing his scalp. “Who were primping for, Dorian?” Rilienus spits. “Who is he?”_

_“No one. There’s no else, just you,” Dorian breathes._

_Rilienus curls his fist into Dorian’s hair and jerks his head back. Dorian barely recognizes the man in the mirror. Either of them. “No one else, huh? Lying little bitch.”_

_“I swear.”_

_“Then why were you wearing it?” He’s yelling now. “You knew I had to work a double today. You knew I wouldn’t be home to enjoy it.” He pulls Dorian’s hair again, nearly tugging him out of the chair._

_Dorian could tell the truth; he could say he was going to see Sera and they were going to go shopping and out to lunch. He could lie; he could say he wanted to look pretty in case Rilienus came home early. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing he says now is going to matter, and he doesn’t want to risk losing Sera, but he has to speak now, knows it’s expected._

_“It was a gift from you.”_

_It’s true. All of this make-up had been a gift from Rilienus. Basically everything he owns now has been given to him by Rilienus._

_“That’s right. A gift from me that you chose to ruin. Spoiled it for both of us.”_

_Rilienus’ fingers are still tangled in Dorian’s scalp. In one swift motion he yanks Dorian off the seat and drags him across the room by his hair, slamming him against the wall. He storms back to the vanity and stares at it; Dorian can see his eyes smoldering in the mirror. He takes his arm and rakes Dorian’s make-up off the vanity and into the bin beside it, some of the pieces missing their mark and dropping to the floor like dead flies. He stomps on each one, crushing them beneath his feet._

_“Clean this up before I get home.” He lumbers over to Dorian and wraps his hand around Dorian’s jaw, forcing him to look up. “Don’t ever let me catch you wearing this shit again unless I tell you to.”_

_Dorian doesn’t speak. “I’m gonna be late. We’ll talk about this when I get home.” He backhands Dorian in the face. “You’re an ungrateful whore.”_

“Come on then, you vile creature,” Dorian says, but there’s a fondness in his voice.

Magi hops up and follows him into the kitchen, where Graves is already looming over his food bowl like he’s afraid it may get up and walk away without him there to guard it. He feeds them both, puts some tea on for himself, and pops last night’s leftover noodles into the microwave. While he’s waiting for what passes as breakfast nowadays, Dorian swallows his antidepressant dry.

He eats quickly and tosses the paper dishes into the trash. Magi and Graves are finished now too, and Graves has plopped down beside his bowl, which isn’t unusual considering he doesn’t move unless he has to. Magi waits for Dorian by the front door, no doubt eager to go wherever it is she goes during the day.

Dorian’s phone beeps. It’s time. He takes one more look at himself in the mirror beside the front door, giving his reflection a little smile. He looks nice today, a little sliver of his old self shining through. Satisfied, he grabs his keys and lets the cats out (which takes entirely too long, because Graves has to be the slowest feline ever created). He locks up and heads down to meet Sera.

“Do-ri-an!” She sing-songs out the window, waving to him.

“I do believe you’re more excited about this than I am.”

She snorts. “Duh. But that’s because you’re borin’.”

“I still can’t believe I allowed you to talk me into this.”

“Hey, don’t blame it on me. This was your idea. I’m just givin’ ya a lil’ shove.”

“One of these days it’ll be right off a cliff.”

She grins wickedly. “That your way of sayin’ ya wanna go cliff divin’?

“You know I detest water.”

“Quite right, such an offensive thing, water is,” Sera mocks him. Her imitation of his accent is positively atrocious and it makes him grin.

She turns up the radio and rolls down the windows of her Beetle, and they spend the rest of the ride to the tattoo parlor trying to drown each other out. Sera sings terribly off-key, but Dorian can’t deny that it’s still incredibly pleasant for reasons he can’t quite explain. He’s riding high on this little slice of happiness until they park.

“Ya ready to go in?” Sera asks.

Dorian nods, pulling the flyer out of his pocket and clutching it so tightly it crinkles in his hands. Last night, when he was snuggling on the couch with Sera and his stomach was full of wine, he was positive he could do this. Today that confidence is waning. The building in front of them is small, and Dorian wants to say it’s ominous, but in fact it’s quite ridiculous because the bricks are bright pink.

Dorian still wants to run.

Sera knows him too well though, and she grabs him by the elbow and tugs him inside, giggling like a maniac for no reason at all. The smell of alcohol and something sterile assaults his senses. Tiny buzzing noises from the tattoo guns make him feel like he’s stumbled into a beehive, which is probably really getting Sera going, but Dorian just stands there awkwardly, eyes darting from the walls to the booths to the people at the front desk, waiting for someone to notice him. One of the men looks at him and _grunts,_ and the other one, a dwarf, is on the phone.

Dorian feels uncomfortable speaking with the grunting man, so he waits until the dwarf finishes his phone call. “You got an appointment?”

“Not exactly, but I—”

“We don’t take walk-ins, buddy, but you can make an appointment while you’re here.”

It’s ridiculous, but he can’t think of anything to at all to say right now. It feels like there’s something dense and sticky in his throat when he tries to swallow, his words sticking to it like tiny bugs. _Breathe._ He looks back at Sera, silently begging her for help. She just gestures at the flyer he’s holding and rolls her eyes like Dorian’s a total idiot. Dorian wouldn’t call Sera _helpful,_ but he does appreciate her. He wordlessly places the flyer on the desk.

The dwarf’s face visibly softens and he nods. “Wait here,” he says. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

Dorian doesn’t sit. He gives Sera another _what did I let you talk me into_ kind of look, and Sera just shrugs like she’s not the most annoying person on the planet. Which, by the way, she is.

Dorian’s had a good morning; he looks hot, he ate noodles, and he sings better than his best friend. So Dorian’s not going to let this turn into a negative experience. He inhales deeply, applying that deep breathing shit Josephine swears by. _“Try to halt that panic attack before it begins, Dorian,”_ she always says in their sessions _._

In the middle of said breathing exercises, a very giant, very muscular Qunari emerges and begins to walk toward Dorian. Dorian’s not surprised, not really. He knew who owned the shop, has even seen his pictures online, but up close— _Maker_ the man is enormous, even for a species well-known for its size. Dorian swallows. His tongue feels thick and useless behind his lips. The Qunari—Iron Bull, Dorian remembers from the advertisement—extends his hand slowly, as if Dorian’s a skittish kitten that might run away if approached too aggressively.

Unsurprisingly, Iron Bull’s hands are calloused and hard. What is surprising is that his handshake isn’t tight or aggressive; it’s warm and somehow welcoming, and Dorian feels himself relax a little at the touch.

“So you saw our flyer, huh?” Dorian nods, his eyes lingering on Iron Bull’s broad chest. “I’m The Iron Bull.”

“Dorian.”

The Iron bull grins at that, softly, and Dorian tries not to be offended at such careful handling. For such a big man he’s not imposing, though Dorian gets the impression it’s a conscious effort on Iron Bull’s part. How he accomplishes it, Dorian really doesn’t know; he’s covered in tattoos and scars, has only one eye, and is more than a foot taller than Dorian. Still, it’s hard to be intimidated by a man who’s wearing a bracelet with a dangling nug on it and a pink tank top.

“Let’s go back to my office and we’ll talk about your tattoo. Your friend can come too, if you want.”

Dorian thinks about speaking, but ends up just nodding. Iron Bull accepts his response easily enough, and soon Dorian’s sitting in a plush leather chair with Sera beside him and Iron Bull across from him. There’s a large, oak desk between them, a mini fridge, and even a small couch.

Across the room is what appears to be a private little studio; there’s a tattoo chair, table, and another desk with supplies sitting on the surface. The office is easily half as large as the entire parlor. It’s also well-lit and comfortable, decorated with various sketches, most of which are various types of dragons. They’re truly magnificent, Dorian thinks, and for the first time since he’s gotten here he feels a little stir of excitement in his stomach.

“I wanted to do this in here because it’s more private.” Dorian nods. “Before we talk about what you want, I’m gonna need to see the area you want covered, okay?”

Dorian stills. The excitement he felt mere seconds ago melts into something heavy and sour that settles deep in his gut. It churns and bubbles, and for a brief moment Dorian is certain he’s going to vomit. Sera punches him in the shoulder lightly, just enough to pull him out of his own head.

“Oi,” she says, aiming for quiet, but it still comes out quite loudly. “We talked about this, yeah? He’s gotta see it.”

Iron Bull hasn’t said anything else. Dorian risks looking at him, though he’s not sure what he expects to see. Iron Bull appears patient, understanding, perhaps even encouraging. Suddenly Dorian’s eyes are a tad wet. He takes a deep breath and stands up, his hand dancing around the hem of his t-shirt. _Rip it like band aid,_ he thinks, and tears the whole thing off in one swoop.

“Honestly I do have a couple…scars. But the worst one he gave…I acquired, is on my left shoulder blade.”

He turns around for The Iron Bull to see. It’s somewhat easier like this anyway, the lack of eye contact. Dorian doesn’t want Bull to see the lingering shame and embarrassment he harbors. What fool stays with someone who beats them? How could he have let it go on for this long, long enough that he’d garnered scars? Maker, Bull must think he’s pathetic. In the back of his mind, Josephine is chastising him.

“May I touch?” He nods slightly, murmurs a quiet yes, and now Bull is in his space, his calloused fingers brushing lightly against Dorian’s skin. “Sorry, I need to see what I’m working with.”

“And here I thought you just wanted to touch me,” Dorian jokes, voice a little shaky.

Iron Bull’s fingers are gone quickly, but he’s smiling a little. “I can cover it all. May be a bit big, but I can definitely do it.”

Dorian sighs, relieved. “Please. I’d like no trace of it remaining.”

“Do you have a design in mind? I can come up with something if you want, or we can bounce ideas off each other.”

“That’s it? I don’t need to regale you with the tale of how I acquired these scars? Provide you some sort of proof I didn’t just trip over my own two feet?”

“If you want someone to talk to you can, but I don’t need to know the details to do the work.”

“You just believe me? I could very well be lying just to get a free tattoo.”

Sera rolls her eyes and Bull shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you?”

“ _Kaffas, no_! Of course not.”

Bull does smile then, a real, full smile that reaches his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people. I trust you, Dorian.”

“Oh,” he says, and Sera’s still shaking her head.

Dorian isn’t quite sure what to make of that, but he doesn’t push it. “Well, I’d certainly be open to your suggestions. You _are_ the most highly sought after tattoo artist in Fereldan.”

Iron Bull doesn’t deny it. “I like this to be a team effort, especially in cases of survivors.”

Dorian flinches. _Survivor_. Everyone he knows wants to paste that label on him—it’s even on the damn flyer. In Dorian’s opinion, it’s just the politically correct version of _victim_ , and hearing it out loud brings heat to his cheeks. He suddenly feels like he’s on display. _And here we have Dorian Pavus, former Ph.D. student and political heir to the Pavus Estate, and current sad sack of nug shit._

He tugs his shirt back on in a hurry, if only to briefly break eye contact with the man in front of him. The man who claims to be good at reading people, which is code for _I can see right through you_. Suddenly this feels like a bad idea all over again.

“Hey,” says Iron Bull, who clearly _is_ good at reading people, “we all got bullshit. Sometimes it breaks us and sometimes we survive. Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”

And what’s Dorian supposed to say to _that?_ So he doesn’t say anything, just nods. “I, uh, I have a few thoughts, but I truly don’t know. I just want _something_.”

“Sometimes people want a kind of symbol. Something with a meaning behind it. And sometimes people just want something that looks badass or pretty.”

“Oh if one could have it all.”

Bull snorts. “I don’t know if even _I_ could tick all those boxes.” Dorian bites his lip, because even though he’s not looking for a relationship or even a casual fuck right now, The Iron Bull is hot enough to make him wish he was.

Bull picks up a sketchbook and flips to an open page. “But I’d be willing to try.”

Sera wriggles her eyebrows. “Dori’s single ya know,” she says lewdly, wrapping an arm around him and squeezing. “And trust me when I say you _do_ tick all _his_ boxes.”

“Ignore her, please,” he says, and he sends a silent prayer to the Maker that the floor will open up and swallow him whole. He’s pretty sure his face is hot enough to melt one there anyway, in case the Maker doesn’t answer. There’s a difference between a little flirting and shameless propositions.

Iron Bull actually laughs, a full belly laugh. Even under the circumstances, Dorian thinks, it sounds quite pleasant. “No way that’s true. The pretty ones are never single.”

Sera squeals with delight and Dorian ignores her, anxious to change the subject. “Honestly this is quite a generous gift; I simply cannot believe you do it for free.”

Iron Bull is getting five stars online, because he goes straight back into professional mode like nothing ever happened. “Not for everyone. Trust me, I got enough business to keep me goin’, and this is something that’s important to me.”

Dorian wants to ask why, but he realizes it would be in poor taste, so he lets it go. Instead he tries to focus on what design he might want to get permanently etched into his skin. He has a few ideas, but nothing he feels incredibly strongly about, which was one of the reasons he didn’t want to do this in the first place. Anything would be better than what he has now, though. Dorian is determined replace this scar with a new one; one he’s in control of, one that’s beautiful and meaningful and not a constant reminder of his shitty past.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“What are your hobbies? What do you do for a living? What are you passionate about?”

“I feel as if I’m on a speed date,” Dorian smiles. “Well, I used to be a teaching and lab assistant back in Tevinter. So it’s probably not surprising that I adore reading.”

“Oi, he loves RPG’s,” Sera interjects, grinning like a fool. Dorian shoots her the nastiest look he can muster, which isn’t very intimidating considering there’s a bright pink flush spreading across his cheeks. Again.

Dorian doesn’t look at Iron Bull, but he swears he hears the smile in his voice when he responds. “What do you play?”

“I play _rarely_ , and I don’t take it seriously.”

“Oh please, yeah? Ya pissed yer pants when you rolled a natural one and that dragon slaughtered your character. _Chomp chomp._ ” She pantomimes a giant mouth with her hands.

“I _did not_ roll a natural one! The dice went off the table so it _shouldn’t_ have counted and…”

And Dorian’s been caught. Now the super hot Qunari is going to think he’s even more pathetic than he probably already does, and oh isn’t that just his luck? But when he risks a glance at Iron Bull, the man is beaming. Fucking beaming from ear to ear like an idiot, and for the millionth time today he wants to run out of this building. How utterly mortifying.

“I play too, actually.”

“Pardon me, Iron Bull, but did you just openly admit to participating on one of the nerdiest activities known to man?”

“Yep,” Bull shrugs. “Shit’s fun. I usually go with soldier or warrior classes, depending on the system.”

“Dori likes playin’ a mage.”

“Well I’ll admit that it is entertaining.”

“Damn right it is.” He starts scribbling down some notes. “Anything else about you?”

There was a time when Dorian would have made a joke about how truly wonderful he was, but these days those quips are further from his tongue than they once were. Josephine says it’s normal, that he’ll work it out (probably), and he should at least aspire to be some sort of shell of what he once was.

“I suppose you know it all. I’m a nerd who reads and falls prey to fictional dragons. And…I don’t know if I want…I think…could you possibly incorporate my, um. Well, I’m gay.”

He’s been saying it out loud for a long time now, but it still feels like a dirty word on his tongue. Sometimes he pictures his father’s face the night he told him; his eyes squinting at Dorian, as if trying to work out just _who_ Dorian is now, because Dorian is most certainly _not_ what Halward Pavus had hoped for, what he’d needed in a son. He still isn’t.

“So here’s what I’m thinking: we’ll get you scheduled. In the meantime, I’ll draw up a design, email it to you, and you let me know if you like it or if I need to make changes. If we don’t land on something before you’re appointment rolls around, no biggie. We’ll work the bugs out when you get here. If you don’t like the email system, I’ll check my schedule and you can drop in. We can work on it together if it’s easier.”

“Yes,” Dorian nods, “That sounds perfect.”

It’s quick work getting Dorian’s info into the system. They settle on two weeks from today. He shakes Bull’s hand again, marveling at how small his own is in comparison, how strong and warm Iron Bull feels. With some effort, Dorian peels his eyes away and sends a prayer up to the Maker that he hasn’t been staring longer than is socially acceptable. Iron Bull has been most accommodating, and the last thing Dorian wants is to make the man feel uncomfortable by ogling him. Sera’s done enough damage as it is.

They walk outside and Dorian breathes in deeply. Two weeks. Two weeks and he can finally start over.


	2. Flashbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets pretty dark in a couple of spots. Trigger warnings are in the tags, so please take them seriously. I apologize that it took so long to update! Also I plan for the next chapter to be a bit lighter.

Two weeks goes by quickly.

**Felix:** _Don’t be nervous. Can’t hurt that bad_

**Dorian:** _I don’t care about the pain. I think I’m just generally anxious_

**Felix:** _Text me later and let me know how it goes_

**Dorian:** _Of course_

**Felix:** _Oh and try not to drool all over his equipment ;)_

**Dorian:** _Fuck off, you sound like Sera_

There are days when he can’t believe he’s able to talk to Felix again. Dorian fled Tevinter in a hurry; he had no money, no clothes, and no food to bring with him. And, thanks to his father, he didn’t have a cell phone either. They didn’t let you have them at the camp. _Kaffas_.

_“I want to phone my mother.”_

_“You may phone your parents once you’ve completed your treatment,” Mr. Vaughn says._

_“My father did this to me. My mother is going to be furious! I demand you let me speak to her!”_

_The clergyman reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a thick, stapled packet of paper. He hands it to Dorian. On top is a glorified permission slip for Dorian to be shipped away. For Dorian to be ‘treated’ by these people. At the bottom, in dark blue ink, is his father’s signature. And beneath it…his mother’s._

_It’s her handwriting._

_It’s hers._

_She didn’t want him either._

_Inside his mind, something snaps. “Give me back my fucking phone!” He jumps up, kicks the chair across the room. “I’ll phone Alexius. The police. You can’t keep me here.”_

_“Orderlies!”_

_Two large men in scrubs enter the room then. One of them is holding a syringe, and both of them are closing in on Dorian quickly. He picks up a photograph that’s sitting on Mr. Vaughn’s desk and hurls it at the man with the needle. It smacks him right in the face and the glass shatters, and Dorian looks on with horror and satisfaction at the blood dripping from the orderly’s nose._

_He tries to use the momentary distraction to bolt, but the other orderly grabs Dorian by the arm and twists it behind his back, using his weight to push Dorian to the ground. Soon he feels a pinch as the needle is inserted into his neck. He doesn’t remember much after that._

Intrusive thoughts are not a good sign. Not a good sign. Maybe he should reschedule. No. No. No. He’s not going to let his mind wander there again. Not today. Dorian is not going to let something that happened almost six years ago ruin this for him. Today is going to be a good fucking day.

He turns his attention to his coffee and croissant, picking at it at a leisurely pace and focusing on the flavors in his mouth. The cafe is right across the street from the tattoo parlor, and that’s where his next stop is. He can hardly believe this is really happening. It’s been a long journey so far, and he’s ready to start a new, hopeful chapter in his life.

He hits the bathroom before he leaves, checking his face and hair, which both look divine, if he’s being honest. He decided to wear his glasses this morning, which was a good choice. They have thick, dark purple rims, and they frame Dorian’s face just right. He feels smart and sexy when he wears them. His jeans are black and fitted, worn and comfortable, perfect for sitting in for hours. He’s paired them with a white cotton t-shirt that shows off his arms. Hey may not be ‘buff,’ but he certainly has decent muscles. Once he’d gotten away from Rilienus, he’d started working out daily.

It’s precarious, really. Even wanting another man to find him attractive stirs something unpleasant inside him, regardless of whether or not he plans to act on it, which he doesn’t. He knows better than to tease men; it’s a dangerous game, one he’s played a few times but has lost every time. The only way to come out on top is not to play at all. Besides, he’s damaged goods.

His phone beeps. When he pulls it out of his pocket he realizes his hands are shaking.

**Sera:** _hey fancy pants…get his number, yeah? ;)_

**Dorian:** _Darling I love you, but I’m overjoyed at your absence here today_

Sera responds by sending him six rows of eggplant and peach emoji’s. He laughs weakly and rolls his eyes.

This time when he goes to the front desk, the dwarf—Rocky, Dorian now knows—actually greets him with a rather pleasant hello and a smile. The other man, Grim, even shoots him a friendlier sounding grunt. He immediately begins to feel welcome here, which is strange considering he doesn’t know anyone _and_ he’s from Tevinter, but the place has that sort of vibe. No one seems to care about his past or that fact that his country is actively at war with Iron Bull’s.

Bull comes out a moment later and greets him warmly, all smiles as he leads the way back to his office. Bull gestures to the chair for tattooing instead of the one at his desk, and Dorian sits down, eager to see the design they’d settled on in person. To be honest Dorian fell in love with the very first photo Iron Bull sent to him, so they hadn’t ended up changing much from the original, but it was still exciting for Dorian to see it in real life.

He’d ended up going with a stack of books, which were decorated with a set of rainbow dice and a mage staff propped up against them. It was the epitome of nerdy, something Dorian would have never considered before, but somehow now it felt right. It was like a piece of the real him that would be on the outside for once, something he could wear around proudly.

“Okay, if you’re one hundred percent sure you’re satisfied, I’m gonna get everything set up.”

“I’m sure.”

Iron Bull beams and Dorian’s really starting to like the look of it. “Alright, big guy, hand me your shirt and I’ll put it on my desk. Do you wanna lay down or sit up?”

“I’d prefer to sit, if that’s alright.”

“Course. Get comfy, I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

Dorian nods, licking his lips, a sort of nervous enthusiasm coursing through him. By the time Bull gets back, Dorian’s ready to go. He still has some niggling shame at being exposed, his skin and scars on full display, but deep down he knows that it’s silly. It’s just a hard habit to break to go from covering everything up to baring a personal side of himself to a stranger.

“I know we talked about this through email, but the design and size are gonna mean this’ll be a three session tattoo. I could do it in two, but since this is your first time I don’t want to push you too hard.”

“Okay,” Dorian says, nodding.

He wants to tell Bull that he’s used to pain, that for once it’ll be his choice and he wants to see it through. Instead he braces himself as Bull gets everything ready. His skin is tingling with anticipation, his mind blank as the sensations in his body take over.

That’s when Bull picks up a black glove and snaps it on.

_“Hold him still.”_

_Dorian is sitting, his legs spread and bound, his mouth gagged, and now they’re busy anchoring his wrists to the arms of the chair. He’s shaking, twisting and thrashing as much as he can in a feeble attempt to escape. He’s weak now, though. He doesn’t know what they forced him to drink earlier, but it’s sucked out most of his energy and left him nauseous. He’s fairly certain it’s not poison, but part of him wishes it was._

_The man—Dorian doesn’t know his name yet—pulls on two latex gloves. He grabs a bucket and places it between Dorian’s legs. He removes Dorian’s gag. Dorian licks his lips, a string of curse words spilling from them. He’s sweating now._

_Dorian thinks the man in the gloves is a physician. He’s seen him around before, but he hasn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting the asshole…until now. The doctor nods to an orderly, who then walks over and turns on a large, flat screen television that takes up nearly the entire wall. It’s blank. Dorian’s stomach begins to roll like ocean waves._

_When the screen comes to life, Dorian’s confused; then he’s horrified. It’s porn—graphic, homosexual porn. His stomach clenches and unclenches; it’s like someone is clutching him from the inside. Hot, sour liquid bubbles up on the back of his tongue, but he manages to swallow it. He squeezes his eyes shut. No. He won’t watch._

_“Open your eyes, Dorian. Look how shameful your inclinations are.” Dorian tries to ignore him. Another wave of nausea hits him. He swallows._

_The doctor moves to the desk and grabs two small, metal devices. “Hold his head still, please.”_

_When Dorian realizes what’s about to happen he screams, lets the sound rip right from his throat, but his captors seem undeterred, and there’s not one around for miles to help him. They hold him steady while he tries to writhe away. It’s over quickly and now he cannot close his eyes. They’re burning from the air and he can’t close them. All he can do is look at the men on the screen. They look positively euphoric and Dorian is watching them because he can’t stop. Dorian is watching them while he feels like he’s going to lose his guts and his eyes are going to burn out of his skull._

_He swallows down another mouthful of bile. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to do it again next time. The gloved hand touches his skin, moves down to the zipper of Dorian’s pants. “This is sinful, Dorian. This is perverse.”_

_The hand slips inside his jeans and squeezes. Dorian vomits._

“Dorian? Dorian?” Gloved hands are touching him again.

Dorian hisses. The hands are gone. He thinks he may have spoken, may still be speaking, but he doesn’t know. It’s like his head is underwater, sounds and images are distorted and wrong. _Gloves._ He’s got to get away. He twists his wrists. They move. He’s not bound. _Touching him._ His legs can move too. He needs to run but he can’t move even though he isn’t bound. He needs to _get out._

“Dorian, it’s okay.” The voice is quiet. Bull has knelt down in front of him but isn’t touching him. “It’s The Iron Bull. You’re here to get a tattoo. You’re sitting in a chair in my office.” Dorian looks at him. Where are the gloves? The gloves are gone. “Good, good job Dorian. It’s Iron Bull,” he repeats. “You’re at my tattoo parlor. I want you to breathe for me. Breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Breathe. Dorian needs to breathe. He didn’t realize he hadn’t been. He focuses on the rise and fall of The Iron Bull’s chest. Up and down. Dorian mimics it. “That’s good, Dorian. Real good. Can I touch you?”

He holds his hands up slowly, palms facing Dorian, a nonthreatening position. Dorian nods. Iron Bull places his hands gently on Dorian’s kneecaps, rubbing soothing little circles with his thumb, all while coaching Dorian on his breathing. He keeps repeating to Dorian where they are, what they’re doing, and murmuring comforting nonsense. Dorian can feel his muscles relaxing, the knots smoothing out.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there like that before he full regains control. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Maker I’m so sorry.” His face is wet. He thinks he might be crying.

“Keep breathing. Don’t apologize.” He’s still speaking very quietly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re safe here. Whatever happened is over, you’re here now. You’re safe, okay.”

“Yes.” _Safe._ “I’m getting a tattoo. You’re not them. I’m okay,” he breathes. “I’m okay.”

“That’s right. Good, Dorian.”

Dorian inhales deeply, holds it, and then lets it out slowly. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m okay,” he says again.

“I’m gonna get you a water, big guy. I’m just going to go over here to the fridge, okay?”

Dorian nods. He accepts it and sips slowly, still trying to secure his grip on reality. He knows where he is. That was a flashback. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe. That place and those people are miles away. That history is years ago. He’s safe.

“Again, I apologize,” he says, feeling a little more in control. “That hasn’t happened to me in a while.”

“Hey, seriously, you don’t need to. You’re not the first person to have a flashback in this place.”

Oh sweet Andraste they’re in a tattoo parlor. How many people had seen his meltdown? His head snaps to the door, but’s shut tightly. Bull notices. “I closed it. I figured you’d want the privacy. No one saw, but even if they did….you shouldn’t be ashamed.”

But Dorian _is_ ashamed. “I understand if you don’t want to work with me now.”

Iron Bull looks genuinely confused. “Of course I still want to work with you. I just need to know what triggered you so I don’t do it again. I have a feeling it was the gloves.”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says. And then, “You up for a walk?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A walk, ‘Vint. You know, that thing you do with your legs when you’re trying to get somewhere?”

Dorian scowls. “I thought you were a tattoo artist, not a comedian.”

“Who’s to say I’m not both?”

Bull hands Dorian his shirt and smiles. Dorian stands, still a little shaky on his feet, and pulls it on. “Why on Earth are we taking a walk?”

“Because I’m hungry.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t object. It’s obvious that Bull is coddling him, but he can’t deny that he would like some fresh air and the ability to stretch his legs, not to mention some sunlight. He follows Bull out of the studio and onto the sidewalk, and soon they fall into step with each other. Well, more like Dorian takes two steps for each one of Bull’s steps. They settle into a peaceful silence until they reach the park. Bull points to a food truck with a lopsided grin on his face.

“You cannot be serious.”

“They have the best deep fried deepstalker. Come on,” he pats Dorian on the shoulder. “I’m buyin’.”

“That’s quite alright, Bull. I’m afraid I’m not hungry.”

Turns out Bull is very stubborn, and a couple minutes later they’re sitting on a bench in front of a small lake, Bull munching happily and Dorian debating on whether or not he can throw his own portion into the water without his companion noticing.

“Why do people in the south insist on frying perfectly good meat and spearing it on a stick?” Dorian takes an experimental sniff. “And slathering it with…well, with whatever _this_ is,” he gripes.

“Barbeque sauce.” Bull is dual wielding two of the meat sticks ( _ugh…yes, he’s aware how that sounds, which is why he doesn’t say it aloud_ ). “Take a bite.” Dorian wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Just one bite and I swear you’ll be hooked forever. You’ll be sneakin’ here every chance you get.” Bull grins, barbeque sauce all over his teeth and lips.

“You’re disgusting,” Dorian laughs. “I’ll take one bite, but I assure you I will not enjoy it.”

Bull shrugs. “Then I’ll eat it.”

“How noble of you,” Dorian says.

He makes a show of it, closing his eyes and pinching his face. His tongue darts out from between his lips and he gives it an exploratory taste before opening up and taking an actual bite. Okay, it’s not what he expected. It’s a little tangy, salty, and savory. Dorian takes another bite, and even though he doesn’t really _like_ it, not at all actually, he figures it would be rude not to eat it.

“Told ya.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s terrible. I just didn’t want you to think me ungrateful.”

“Ooohhh. Well don’t eat it on account of me. I don’t mind finishing it for you. I usually eat four or five anyway.” Bull reaches for the kabob, but Dorian yanks it away greedily.

“Hands off! You brute,” Dorian laughs. “Fine, it’s interesting, I’ll give you that.”

Bull doesn’t say anything else, just sits back and continues eating. He’d gotten Dorian to eat food that came from a _truck,_ and now Bull looks smug. It’s not a bad look for him, honestly. Dorian wonders if there _is_ a look that doesn’t flatter Bull.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bull says. Dorian’s not talking about the kabob. Bull understands this.

“Truly, Bull. It was thoughtful. I appreciate your…discretion. And your help.”

Bull shrugs. “Let’s just say I’ve got some experience with flashbacks. Not to mention my boys in the shop.”

Dorian wonders what he means, but doesn’t ask. Bull would tell him if he wanted Dorian to know. “It’s strange. Sometimes I’ll go days, weeks even, and my…experiences don’t even cross my mind.”

He chews another bite, Iron Bull waits, listening. “And other times the memories are just right there, sitting in my brain and I can’t help but to look. I suppose it’s a bit like when a song gets stuck in your head, though admittedly it’s much more unpleasant.”

Bull hums in acknowledgement. Dorian sees he has a sort of knowing look in his one good eye. It feels strange to have someone understand him at all, let alone with such ease.

“Anyway, I just thought you should know that you’re a kind person. Free tattoo, free therapy—not a lot of people would do that. Not to mention the view isn’t bad,” he says, smiling a little and trying to lighten the situation. Bull flexes a little and Dorian rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to say that I’m in your debt, that’s all.”

“You ‘Vints,” he says, not unkindly, “always keeping track of basic decency on some kind of weird scorecard. Do you guys actually carry it around with you? Or do you have this inborn section in brain that archives all that shit?”

“I’m rather certain it’s the latter,” Dorian smiles.

“You guys are intense. You don’t owe me anything, so just scratch me off that list, okay?”

“As you wish,” Dorian laughs a little. “Old habits die hard.” He finishes his kabob. Bull’s been done a while.

“Don’t I know it.” Bull leans back on the bench, and it creaks under his weight. “So I know this is shitty and we don’t have to talk in depth about it, but I need to figure out how avoid triggering you.”

“I knew that was coming. Fair enough.” Dorian looks down at his feet. An ant crawls across his shoe. “Something…something pretty fucked up happened to me. It’s just the sound and smell of them, I guess.”

“I have to wear gloves, Dorian. It’s unsanitary not to. But let’s figure out a way to work around it.”

“How?”

“What if I wear a different kind of glove?”

“I don’t know that you have many options, Bull. It’s not as if you can wear woolen mittens.”

“I was thinking those ones you wear when you’re washing dishes. You know, the goofy rubber ones.”

Dorian chuckles. “You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Bull, you don’t have to do that. That’s just preposterous.”

“Do you think they would trigger you?”

“Well, no. I have some at home actually.”

“Problem solved.” He slaps Dorian lightly on the shoulder. “Bet you didn’t expect me to be so resourceful, huh?”

“Can’t argue with that, and believe me, I can argue with _everything._ ”

“Oh I believe you.” Bull chuckles as he stands up, and the bench groans again. Dorian follows his lead, stretching and checking his phone. He doesn’t know how long he spent in his own head earlier, but he’s eaten up his appointment window and then some. They throw their trash away and begin the walk back, and Dorian is far more at ease than he had been when they left.

“I hope you’re not upset, but I don’t have time to start the tattoo today. I also don’t think it’s a good idea. Tattoos are draining and I want you in tip top shape. Besides, I gotta make a run to get those gloves.”

Dorian laughs in spite of himself. “I can’t believe you’re really go to do that.”

“Triggers suck. I used to have some pretty crazy ones.”

“Used to?”

Bull shrugs. “There’s always the potential for something to set off an alarm bell inside me, but for the most part I’ve got it under control now. Took years of fucking therapy and it was a road as rough as hell, I’ll tell ya that.”

“That’s great, Bull. Not that you had to go through all that shit…but that…that you were able to move on. I envy that.”

“You’ll get there, big guy.”

“You sound so certain.”

“Haven’t you learned anything since the kabobs? I’m always right.” They’re at the shop now, Bull leaning against the bricks. He looks absolutely ridiculous pressed against the pink stone.

“I hardly think that one incident supports such a bold statement.”

“You’re confidence in me is inspiring, Dorian.” Dorian smiles. “Want to try again same time next week?”

“Yes. I definitely do.”


End file.
